


Piano and Beads

by Leszre



Series: /trænˈsendəns/ [7]
Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types, Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Con-Crits Welcome!, Elio is 18, Elio is first year college student, I'm Bad At Tagging, M/M, Not Beta Read, Oliver is 25, Vimini is Oliver’s daughter, a supporting-character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-12
Updated: 2019-04-20
Packaged: 2020-01-12 00:59:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18435755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leszre/pseuds/Leszre
Summary: COMPLETED.CMBYN professor-student AU spin.•Not-beta-ed,•Con-crits welcome! (I plea thee be ever so kind and gentle.).My Request: though I don’t foresee this from ever happening,please ask meif you, in any way, feel that this drabble is worthy of being shared in any platform other than AO3..This AU spin was a one chapter as usual but I had the pleasure of being requested to expand this into a short multi-chapter. Thank you ALL! *muwuah*





	1. Somewhere in Northern Italy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .  
> As with my other fic, this might not be your thing as I tend to spew out unusual interpretations. Even if you don’t like mine, please keep being a valuable fanfam member of CMBYN in AO3. Each and every one of you are important in this fanfamdom world and its continued existence. Grazie!  
> .  
> –All and all, I hope I didn’t do any disservice for this AU trope for anyone. *awkward smile & crossing my fingers and toes* I know there are many great professor-student AU as more than a handful of my favorite CMBYN authors have written beautiful stories under this AU category (of which I don’t even need to mention their pen-names). But, as usual, this short snapshot would not leave me alone. So... here I present you <1000 words of that.  
> .  
> aaand I hope you like it!

####  **Chapter One. Somewhere in Northern Italy**

 

 

It takes Elio a few tries to get Oliver’s attention. Professor Oliver, as Elio so calls him, is mowing his small front yard, with a push lawn mower, under the hot Italian Sun.

Elio said ‘no’ to his parents’ warm invitation this summer and stayed in Milan. Hosting guests for the past 15 years was enough, Elio reasoned. Sharing a bathroom with a stranger seemed too old. He also said ‘no’ to his childhood best friend’s invitation, Marzia who is studying illustration and photography in France, of a back-packing around Europe. Come on, it’ll be fun: this is what first year college students’ do. He had no intention of staying at youth hostels.

It’s almost a ritual: Oliver offers Elio to stay for freshly squeezed home-made lemonade, and Elio always declines with a nervous but wide genuine smile.

“Are you sure I can’t offer you a ride?” Oliver adds, wiping his sweat from under his chin.

The thin gold line glints just under the half-moon dip of his neck. A light blue button down shirt with top two buttons wide open, a Star of David resting right above the middle of his sternum, on top of a soft tuft of same blond hair there, his sleeves carelessly rolled up, a green linen short-shorts, skin everywhere. It’s intoxicating. Elio swallows hard.

Elio answers that he’s gonna ride his bike back. Oliver acquiesces and says, _Later, then_ , with a warm, low booming voice.

Six weeks now.

Elio has been giving Vimini, Oliver’s five-year-old daughter, piano lessons since the beginning of the summer break. Vimini told Elio her mother passed away while giving birth to her. ‘That’s why I named my piano, Chiara,’ she added coolly, on their very first day.

*–*–*

It was one of the student-faculty gathering thing the university hold each term. One of Elio’s professors, Nadia, invited him, so he went. She has been working with Elio as his guidance counsel even before he started his first semester. ‘It’ll be a good practice,’ she said. Semi-formal meeting slash party such as this was designed to build a social connection. Elio attended similar types with his own father. Even though Elio wanted to go over his practice session with his team, he put on a suit jacket over an oxford-cotton shirt. Soon, he ended up playing the opulent grand piano that set in the enormous sitting area – the one that meant for flaunting sponsorship and college connection rather than its actual purpose. That was how he met Oliver. Elio was playing his jazz rendition of Chopin. Oliver walked from the other side of the party holding a flute of champagne. The look on Oliver’s face that day could only be explained as a pure awe. Of course, Elio did not see it. Soft claps and chin-chin on the crystal flute later, Nadia introduced Elio to Oliver. He must be a big deal, Elio thought. Because, without being prompted, the dean of his department swooped in the middle of their conversation. It was very subtle but Elio saw Nadia flashed an expression of ‘how rude!’ at his direction. Apparently, Oliver was this genius who revolutionized the field of archaeology and history by melding the two together with the most up-to-date technology, namely VR. He did his doctorate and was offered a job to stay as a faculty: he was only 21. The dean proudly announced while petting the back of Oliver’s shoulder in a chummy-chummy, this-is-how-testosterone-looks-like manner.

In a way, Elio was thankful of the interruption; because he couldn’t take his eyes off of Oliver. Two storm blue eyes threaded with sapphire blue in the middle, neatly combed and mussed over blond hair, the way his large hand was holding the neck of delicate champagne flute.

“What are you doing this summer, Elio? Don’t tell me you are going to stay in the practice room,” chimed Nadia.

*–*–*

 

Tuesday comes again, and Elio arrives at two o’clock, right on the dot. He knocks on the door and stands a couple of steps behind. The professor opens the door for him.

“Elio, thank you for always being punctual,” says Oliver.

Today, Oliver is wearing a green button down shirt over a red short-shorts. There is no sign of Vimini.

“Yes, I’ve been meaning to call this morning but I got distracted and lost track of time…” Oliver begins his apology.

Vimini is away with her kindergarten friends. Her friend’s father happened to rent a whole indoor swimming pool and Vimini really wanted to go. So he had to scramble to call his sitter and have her go with Vimini. Oliver apologizes again.

“It’s not a problem, we can always reschedule, professor,” offers Elio.

“Oliver, please,” replies Oliver.

Elio feels his cheeks heat up but manages to smile. Oliver blinks and adds that he will make sure to count today as a lesson-done with a bit more for Elio’s trouble.

“I–I–, no, there is no need, you don’t need to,” Elio stammers. He fairs a glance up at Oliver and is taken aback by his blue eyes, gazing right at him.

“It’s fine, uhmm–, I–uh–, I’ll let myself out,” finishes Elio, secretly scolding himself internally for how un-suave he was the whole time.

When Elio is about to pivot on his heel, he hears Oliver say:

“I’ve made some cream pasta and salad, and stupid of me,” Oliver chuckles rather intently, “I habitually made for two.”

Elio simply stands there and blinks.

“Would you join me? I hate eating alone and Vimini doesn’t like reheated food when I’m home.”

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> –Something about little Vimini gone-too-soon still doesn’t bode well with me, I guess… since me-brain keeps trying to offer some fix-it of sort.  
> .  
> As always, \Thank You/ for reading, your interest and time. Happy Weekend! ;) Let me know what you think below!!


	2. Infatuation?!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver's side of their first meeting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh, my–––, never expected this to be received in such a way! Thank you!  
> .  
> So I humbly present you a little more. 

####  **Chapter Two. Infatuation?!**

 

There’s that look again.

An embodiment of innocence, the one that Vimini often gives him whenever Oliver’d show her something new or explain things in a way she could easily understand. A face expression that is so soft and unadulterated, yet incredibly supple like a jovial gentle spring breeze: a mixture of wonder and admiration _without_ filter, a hint of irony, or practiced guise.

As if Oliver singlehandedly lit the whole world and hung the moon in clear cloudless sky, Elio’s face goes completely still; his bright hazel eyes wide with his unflinching gaze aimed straight, his chiseled high cheekbones that still have peach fuzz, tinting subtly in just the right shade of delicate cherry blossom pink, his plump heart shaped lips parting ever so slightly.

*

 

The first time it happened, Oliver brushed it off as a coincident.

.

It was in the middle of the spring term. Oliver was never fond of attending any social functions. He literally had better things to do. Priorities, right? Papers to grade, Deadlines to meet. Especially, the 3D reconstruction of a small town near the ancient battlefield of Carthage. Settling the inevitable friction among the experts in three different departments (ancient architecture, computer graphics, and archaeology) from seemingly minute differences of opinion was one of the toughest one for Oliver this semester. But Oliver knew it was part of his job to show his face and mingle within the circle of academia. The sitter happily agreed to stay with Vimini until he was able to come home.

The aperitif offered at the bar was atrocious. Someone needs to take the mixology 101 again, Oliver thought to himself, switching to champagne. He glanced over the canapé and finger foods served on silver trays and couldn’t help but to grimace a little. That was when Oliver heard the piano play.

Everyone at the party knew that the nine-footer full-concert-grand piano set just off the center of the giant guest area was purely for the show. Though it was immaculately well taken care of (all shiny and dust-free), no one actually played it. For four years, through a series of these gatherings, Oliver wasn’t fortunate enough to hear its strings being hammered in melodic notes till that very moment. Oliver crossed the room utterly and sigularly drawn to the sound, as if he was enchanted; as if his heart was somehow lassoed by an invisible string tugging him, saying _come–, hear me sing_. It was a jazz interpretation of piano classics he couldn’t quite name, right off of his head. The pianist sitting in front of the keys was wearing a hunter green suit jacket. He wasn’t an expressive player but his unruly dark brown curls swayed gently, reflecting the showcase lights, as his long slender fingers danced on the wooden keys.

When the last note rang, soft applauds and delightful high crystal chimes brought Oliver out of his trans. He didn’t want it to end. Oliver didn’t know back then that the very next thing he saw would become one of his favorites: of him.

At the unexpectedly extended wave of praise, the unruly curls turned around and a wide smile bloomed on the pianist face.

_Aw, God._

His breath hitched and quickly turned into a short gasp. Oliver caught himself just in time before it escaped through his lips. What Oliver saw was two gorgeous half-moons over the lightly flushed soft cheeks.

“Oh, Oliver!” Nadia waved at him.

*

 

After the dean of ancient studies department left with the typical bureaucratic ‘it seems I’m needed over there among the important people,’ Nadia did all the heavy lifting as she was giving long introduction of _her_ brilliant student. How hard she worked to get him to apply to this school, at seventeen he transcribed complete series of Hayden’s work; “it was just last year, can you believe it?”

The whole time Elio stood there not knowing where to put his gaze.

.

Elio’s face went totally still, his bright hazel eyes wide as if he had forgotten how to blink, gazing right at Oliver, his blush pink lips gaping only a little.

Oliver just propositioned a summer job to Elio. It wasn’t like he was offering something gigantic or monumentally unthinkable. But, his look, landed right at Oliver’s heart.

Yes, he _has_ been considering getting Vimini a piano lesson. He just didn’t have a chance to actually look over the best possible option. No, strike that. Oliver _did_ peruse in the search engine for places that teach young children of Vimini’s age. There were several ‘follow along the sheet music’ apps he could download on Vimini’s tablet for her. But nothing seemed to click.

Yes, it was a spontaneous decision. But Oliver had to offer it. He wanted to get to know this young man. No, it wasn’t entirely true. Oliver _did_ quickly reason that Vimini could be trusted with him. But why? He just met him.

“Uh–, uhm, yes, sure,” Elio began after blinking rather rapidly a couple of time, “I’ll be happy to.” Then, he darted his eyes and nervously rubbed at the back of his neck.

“Excellent!” added Nadia, in a sing-songy tone, while Oliver fished out his business card from his wallet.

She then carried on and told Elio that coming here wasn’t a total loss while giving him a motherly squeeze on his upper arm. After that, all the rest of the conversation was muffled and distant to Oliver’s ears.

*

 

The second time it happened, Oliver felt his heart skip a beat.

_He really has a gorgeous smile._

It was when Oliver offered him some refreshment after Vimini’s first lesson. Since then, each week Oliver would offer him a home-made lemonade and Elio would always kindly and courteously decline.

.

Elio was unexpectedly well-mannered, unlike the peers of his age. He emailed Oliver instead of texting or calling, though Oliver said ‘feel free to call or text.’ The email even started with a formal letter format: ‘ _Dear’_ at the beginning and a ‘ _colon_ ’ at the end of Oliver’s full name _._ His sentences were well constructed and formatted professionally (correct width of tab-s, a precise use of articles, and punctuation marks), delivering the meaning in a concise manner. This young man was supposedly _of_ the social media generation. The one transcended the art of adequate form of communication with emojis, meme-s, and acronyms. Oliver couldn’t help but being impressed. _Was I ever this proper?_

They exchanged a couple of emails to set up the details such as desired day of the week, time of the day, duration of the lesson, etc.

.

On the first Tuesday after the final, the young man arrived at Oliver’s home, precisely on time. To Oliver’s surprise, Elio knew how to speak to young children without infantilizing. He had patience Oliver never expected him to have. Elio actively listened to Vimini speak and indulged her spirited small fingers wildly tapping on the keys. Elio added harmonic notes on top of each single key she pressed; he was creating melodic segments off the cuff. Vimini burst out into uncontrollable giggles. Oliver didn’t know anyone else could make Vimini laugh out loud like that.

“So this is ‘do’,” said Elio, helping her place her little thumb on the middle C.

“Oh, like the dodo bird!”

At the end of the hour, Elio already taught Vimini how to play Chopstick the right way.

*

 

Seventh Tuesday: it took Oliver that long to actually muster up courage and decide to talk to Elio. He reasoned that it was going to be a conversation between two grown adults, that it was not a total lie or trickery. It wouldn’t have been possible if Oliver happened to somehow misplace a conversation he and Vimini had last Friday about the pool party today. Earlier that morning, it took Oliver a good ten minutes to calm her before he was able to call the sitter. When the voice on the other side of the phone happily said that she was available this afternoon, Oliver dumped out a huge sigh of relief.

The day-backpack was ready, snacks and drinks neatly tucked in next to Vimini’s favorite arm floats and bath toy. Oliver gnawed at the inside of his mouth, fidgeting his fingers, tapping his nails on the black screen of his cellphone.

“Papa?”

“Yes, V, my sweet.”

.

Vimini and her sitter left around eleven. Soon, two o'clock came.

.

There’s that look again. It marks as the third one.

_Ughft, get a grip._

_It’s just his nervous tic._

_He is a student._

_He’s 18._

.

The part where Oliver sorta kinda fudged about habitually making food for two and had Elio agreed to stay to join him had passed without a hitch. Oliver made the béchamel from scratch as he always does but skipped making the pasta noodle from scratch. Because he figured it had to look convincing: a busy parent had a crazy morning because of the last minute surprise.

“Make yourself comfortable,” offers Oliver, saying the bread in the oven needs five more minutes.

Freshly rinsed baby spring mix drained nicely on the colander. Oliver debates whether to plate individually but decides to place the whole thing in the family salad bowl. The oven chirps cheerfully as the light goes off. Oliver carefully pulls out the terracotta pot away from radiating heat of the open oven and takes a good slow wiff. The aroma of freshly baked bread is always incredible. Lobster mittens off, and as Oliver reaches for the refrigerator door to get the lemonade pitcher is when he hears the piano.

Notes ring delicately as if water-striders are skipping over the calm lake surface. The melody feels like early spring, young baby green leaves, budding. The innocence of a childhood so pure that one so wishes they could bottle it or live it over and over again.

When Oliver asks him about it, Elio stops abruptly and hesitates as if he is too much on his guard to answer Oliver. _Did I startle him?_ Oliver feels a bit impatient as Elio scrambles for answer.

“Don’t bother explaining. Just play it again,” Oliver urges him.

Elio blinks a beat briskly, taken aback a little.

“I’m sorry,” offers Oliver hastily, “could you please play it again?”

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> –Strictly speaking, this was one-chapter fic. But since my first A/B/O fic, my drabble didn't receive this much love. So I can honestly say that "since you asked, I tried my best to deliver." I hope I didn't disappoint anyone. *fidgetting*  
> I still don't meticulously _plan_ to write any. But I must say... I quite enjoy communicating with you all about this fic. So let me know below. hehehe  
> .  
> As always, \Thank you/ all for reading, your time and interest! *muwuah*


	3. Later!: the word

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elio is having trouble after three months of seeing Oliver weekly. Oliver devises a roundabout way to get to know more about Elio.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uhmm…, I went overboard and uhm…*rapid blinks* it’s over 2.5K. I sawee––, weelly. So… proceed at your discretion, pretty please.

####  **Chapter Three. Later!: the word.**

 

“So, who is it that you are trying _not_ to think about?”

*

 

Elio is walking out into the garden. It’s particularly hot and humid mid-summer afternoon. By ten in the morning, he had already shed the vintage t-shirt he put on for breakfast and was now only wearing his thin swim trunks. Elio hears Mafalda scolding him at the back of his head and completely ignores her, not even flinching a little. When he turns the corner, Elio comes to an abrupt stop. His breath hitches, instantly.

Oliver–!

Professor Oliver is lying there, his straw hat covering his face, only with his yellow swim trunks. His broad lean chest bare simply ornated with his Star of David, one of his arms folded and nestled under the back of his head, his long well-formed legs sprawled lax. His skin glistens with a thin layer of sweat, the tan closely resembling the shade of red clay. Elio stands there and just admires, well..., _everything_.

“Thought you’re never gonna show up,” Oliver says quietly without moving an inch.

Elio’s jaw falls open; his eyes grow wide.

The hand that was resting on Oliver’s taut belly reaches up and lifts his straw hat just a smidge. Oliver turns his head slowly, towards Elio’s direction. Oliver regards him with soft gaze, for a moment, his golden lashes batting weightlessly, his breath even, before he says:

“Are you gonna join me or what?”

A tone so composed and calm, yet, strangely alluring.

Elio’s heart is now beating in his throat. It almost feels like he’s about to puke. So Elio expands his lungs before he presses down his bare feet on the gravel, and begins pushing the muggy air in front of him with his shoulders. Elio takes wider strides than normal. A smile that almost like a smirk comes on Oliver’s face, as he watches Elio closing the distance. Elio’s chest starts to heave faster. He feels his fingers tremble. When he gets close to Oliver, he doesn’t hesitate: Elio climbs over Oliver’s body and straddles his hips. Oliver props up his torso with one bent elbow at a time. Elio threads his fingers around Oliver’s jaw, taking hold of his whole face. Oliver makes deep rumbling sound from the back of this throat. Elio arches up against him, tilting his head. Their noses brush together. Oliver’s lips are so–, so close, his warm breath ghosts around Elio’s lips.

“What are you waiting for?” Oliver whispers the words rapturously, “hmm?” teasing him, enticing him.

Elio surges forward, his knees digging, the voice in his head screaming, _he is right there_! But he cannot reach Oliver’s lips. Elio tries his best to pull Oliver’s skull closer to him but the weight on his hands grows heavy. Elio tries and tries again. But the muscle in his arms hurt. To a point, his fingers can no longer support the hold. He presses down but it only breaks the skin around his knee caps.

_No, no, no, no, no––––! he is right there!  
_

*

Elio wakes up with a heavy gasp; his chest still heaving as if he just ran five miles, his forearms feeling sore. He looks around: everything was dark.

It was all, just. a. dream. _Fuck!_

He flings his arm and reaches for the end table. His mobile is hooked on to the wall and he almost yanks it from the socket. When he flinch-opens his eyes against the bright blue light, the digit on the screen reads 5:12 AM. Elio runs his fingers through his messy curls, frowning. _Oh, right, I had too much to drink last night._ A stream of broiling frustration escapes through his nose. _Ugh_! _my breath smells like something died_.

*

Elio is standing there, under the cold water streaming down from the old showerhead, his head hanging low, one arm stretched, his palm pressed on the wall. He is trying, trying so hard to ward off the ridiculous, intrusive, and downright absurd dream. _I'm not some hormonal teenager, for crying outloud._ It is simply futile: fragments of his dream flashes behind his eyelids. Elio grits his teeth, almost growling. A drawn out gritty groan ripples in his throat.

 _Aw, hell_.

He shifts his stance a little and reaches his free hand down to his lower abdomen.

“Elio–,” he whispers, imagining it’s Oliver calling his name.

.

“Tato! Hope your hand is all sudsy.”

“Jesus!” cursed Elio under his breath with a jump. All he hears is the soft thud of bathroom door closing.

“Good morning to you too!”

“Marzia, out!” Elio shouts, running his palm down over his face.

“Oh, come on. I’m not about to use _other_ bathroom,” she shudders, wincing, “besides, is this the way you treat your best friend?” and sits down on the toilet. She mumbles something about Elio’s housemates are like Neanderthals.

Marzia came to visit Elio yesterday afternoon: she’ll be staying the weekend. She insisted on celebrating them surviving the midterm. So Elio took her downtown to one of the famous local clubs.

“Giving up my bed wasn’t enough?” retorts Elio, turning the knob to adjust the water temperature to warm. Sleeping on the sofa, to think about it, wasn’t really that bad. He had enough alcohol in his system that ‘on what surface’ wouldn’t have made much difference in regards to the quality of sleep anyways.

“So,” asks Marzia, picking fuzzes off of her pj, “who is it that you are trying _not_ to think about?”

“I have a very bad case of hang over, Marz,” evades Elio.

“Well, that doesn’t seem to stop you from walking the dog this morning,” tosses Marzia with a snigger.

“Christ,” Elio mutters under his breath, shaking his head. _Who uses that euphemism anyway? What is this, early 90s?_

“The walls are paper thin,” adds Marzia, swiveling her torso a little to roll some toilet paper around her hand, “and for your information, I can tell that much about you.”

“Ha–, ha–, very funny,” says Elio, not amused, rolling his eyes.

“Oh, I love you, too,” replies Marzia in her mocking tone.

She darts her eyes and a devious grin quickly curls on her face. Elio suddenly pauses.

“no, no, no, Marz, don’t!”

Before Elio has a chance to step aside, Marzia flushes the toilet and Elio lets out a loud but fleeting grunt at the change of shower temperature.

*

 

Seeing Marzia and catching up with her was really great. She complained and Elio quipped, “who decided to go back-packing and missed the Ferragosto weekend? Especially when it fell on Friday.”

“And who decided to stay-cay in Milan, the whole summer?”

Marzia wasn’t wrong. Most Milanese go out of their ways to get away from the city. Even the schools forewent on the nation-wide general ‘six days a week’ curricular schedule. Before that faculty-student banquet, Elio too was going to get out of Milan. But when he made the offer for Elio to teach his daughter, Elio couldn't resist. He simply had to.

Although the two bickered, Elio was glad that her fall term schedule aligned with _Ognissanti_. Because, he has been feeling uneasy since the last piano lesson. Though it was Elio’s first time teaching a five-year-old, Vimini was a delight, through and through. He had a chance to have a private lunch with Oliver. His home-made cream pasta was really good. If Mafalda saw how Elio almost inhaled the pasta, complimenting ceaselessly, she would have made her trademark face; the one that can only be described as a disapproving look, the one she never fails to give him whenever Elio tosses a snarky comment at her. On the last week of August, Oliver and Elio repeated their ritual around the homemade lemonade. And the last words Elio heard from Oliver was:  _Later, then._

The fall term started and he had mountains of stuff to do each week. Though two months appeared to fly by in a blink of an eye, nothing seemed right. In fact, everything was off. As if seeing a picture through a filter, things started to feel a dash out of focus, banal, vapid, tasteless, and off kilter. In some sense, it was almost as if he was suffering from withdrawal.  _And what's with the 'Later'? Urgh!!_ Elio wondered and brood over that two syllable word, in his head, what it would _possibly_ mean for Oliver and when would exactly qualify for ' _Later._ ' _Gosh, why does it still feel weird calling him without the title?_

Elio couldn't help but to guffaw at himself: because Elio already knew the answer to that. He is just another student, Professor Oliver, well, he is a professor.

The whole weekend, even though Elio swore to himself to stop mulling over the impossible thoughts crossing over in his head, his brain had a mind of its own. To make things worse, Marzia kept prodding two nights and three days she stayed. But he didn’t cave, until that very moment.

“Ooo––,” Marzia cooed munching on curry, “is that from whom you wouldn’t tell?”

On Sunday mid-afternoon, Elio stared at his phone screen, in utter surprise, sitting at the corner booth of Indian curry restaurant. The corner of Marzia’s lips quirked up but her face relaxed and she didn’t press any further.

/Swing by my office when you get a chance. – Oliver/

*

 

Marzia hopped on the train at five yesterday, sent him a confirmation text when she arrived home, safe and sound. Elio kept pacing back and forth in his room, debating whether to answer his text or not the whole night. When he finally decided to lie down, the sleep was fitful.

.

Elio showers. He drinks his coffee, way too early in the morning. He checks and double-checks Oliver’s office hours. He sighs. Elio paces in his room a bit more. Mafalda’s recipe for hangover drink taste yuk as usual. But his tummy settles less than an hour. Then, he wonders why he made and drank that concoction for heartburn: the curry was a little too spicy. Elio checks Oliver’s office hour, yet again. He sighs some more. When the time draws near, Elio’s anxiety level rises. He sits at the end of the bed, fretting over his fingernails. As soon as his phone clock hits zero-zero of the hour he has been waiting for, he grabs his key and rushes out of his room. He plans to arrive five till. Elio is determined to be a respectable person for him. And yet, Elio arrives at Oliver’s building almost a half an hour too early. His shoulders sag, sighing heavily. He must have sprinted the whole way. What catches his eyes was Oliver’s class schedule, thumb-tacked on the side wall. The color coded box indicated that his class is one level up. _Hm, Why not_? So Elio heads up the stairs.

When he arrives at the classroom, the back door is open, propped with the hand-carved statue that looked like a scaled replica of Roman sculpture. Elio hears laughter resonating from the room.

That is the very first time Elio sees _Professor_ Oliver in his environment: commanding the whole lecture hall, brimming with people. The little plaque next to the back entrance says, ‘maximum capacity 150.’ _Wow._ But there are more than 150 occupants. The hall resembles that of ancient Greek open arena. Or many traditional concert hall. The podium set lower than the seating area, in a wraparound reverse conical shape. Obviously, all seats are full. And against the up-slope of the side walls, students are sitting on the steps in pairs, some in three. About 20 people are standing at the back of the room.

Oliver has this charisma of making general eye contact throughout the room, never lingering too long. His gestures are open, relaxed, and alight. Whenever he’d make appropriate jokes, genuine laughter bursts out in unison. Elio could hear school girl giggles from the far corner. Some kids are literally swooning, their chin propped up on their palm, sighing contently, admiring him. His Italian is perfect, though Elio could hear slight American inflections and intonations but it only heightens his charm.

Oliver casually takes slow steps across the podium area, sliding one of his hands in his pant pocket, gesturing with the other. Talk about the outfit. Unlike the relaxed casual-wear Elio saw during the Summer, Oliver is in three-piece suit, sans the jacket. Yet, there is something very familiar about the look. _Ah… Billowy_. The long sleeve version of the same color shirt Elio loved seeing him in. The sleeves are neatly rolled up; expertly iron-pressed lines everywhere, his form fitting three button vest accentuating his feature.

Then, it happens.

At first, Elio thinks he is imagining it. Those captivating storm blue eyes look up at his direction for a few moments. Subtle yet powerful enough to take Elio’s breath away.

_Fuck, this was a bad idea._

*

 

“Ah––, Elio, How are you?”

Elio smiles, trying desperately to hide his flushed face. It takes him twenty more minutes before everyone clears out from the lecture hall. Oliver’s admin passes him some notes and hands him the tablet with the school logo on its back. He thanks them and leads Elio to his office.

“How is your term going? Busy I hope,” says Oliver light-heartedly, putting things down on and around his desk.

“Voltaire.”

“Pardon?” Oliver’s head snaps up, with a slight tilt.

“The quote, ‘with great power–.’ People think that it is from Spiderman but it was Voltaire who said it.”

Oliver straightens, meeting Elio’s eyes, pausing himself from every possible motion, with a soft hum. The air inside the office suspends and Elio hears his heartbeat in his ears. Oliver offers a small smile as he lets out a short exhale. Then, his chest expands.

“Well,” Oliver begins, “I asked you to stop by because I have–, ah, yes, two things I need to discuss with you.”

Oliver gestures for Elio to have a seat at the sofa as he walks around from his desk to sit across from him. Elio’s heart is pounding against his ribcage, in a punishing speed.

“I have been working with BBC One and they are in the final stage of making an hour length documentary about the newly discovered archaeological site.”

“Uhmm, the one that’s near Roman era Carthage?”

“How did you know?” Oliver asks fondly, a flash of modulated intrigue comes on around his eyes but disappearing quickly.

“Uh–, I know someone who… uh– was a part of the initial exploration team.”

“Hang on…, initial exploration–. Oh, wow. Are you in anyway related to Professor Samuel Perlman?”

Elio nods, rather awkwardly, “yeah,” he quickly clears his throat, “I’m sorry, yes, he’s my father.”

“Huh,” says Oliver, smiling wide, “what are the odds!”

Elio rubs his palms tensely while nodding his head like a bobbing ornament in a cruise control.

Oliver fondly shakes his head a little. Now, he is beaming.

“Anyway, I was asked to recommend a music composer for it. You will be going through the same auditioning process but, since you are a composition and music producing major, I figured you’d be a great candidate for this project.”

Elio goes completely still. And Oliver just regards him without much change in his expression or body language.

“I–, uh–.”

“If you are busy, I understand. I wanted to ask you first, before I speak to Professor Sogliato.”

“Um… I–, I don’t know what to say.”

“Nadia will hang me in the college square by the neck, if she finds out I went over her head. But I don’t see any harm of letting you know in advance, so you could take some time to think it over,” explains Oliver with his gaze soft.

Meaning, it’s an insider knowledge that the open auditioning process has yet to go public to meet the regulation for the hiring process. Technically, it’s not entirely illegal; but not necessarily a fair play, either. Elio doesn’t know how to respond to that proposition. Oliver presses his lips together and hums low, regarding him.

“and the next thing, I wanted to talk to you about is this,” says Oliver, stretching his arm out across the table. It is an envelope, lightly clutched between his fingers.

Elio blinks. He then corrects himself and leans forward to take the lavender envelope from Oliver’s outstretched hand.

“It’s from Vimini’s _personal_ request.”

When Elio flips it over, he can’t help but to chuckle. His name in Vimini’s handwriting was so adorable. She even wrote it in her favorite color.

Two sit there in shared familiarity they have yet to fully understand, as if they were transported into a different dimension. Elio feels strangely comfortable. The rise and fall of Oliver chest is somehow so soothing. The fretfulness and the tension that engulfed him dissipate from him, like it was never really there. Oliver leans back against the sofa, crossing his legs, loosely laced hands on his thigh. Elio’s chest fills slowly and his heart rate cools to normal. _It really is nice seeing him again,_ Elio thinks. Though he subdues the stubborn urge from admitting what he really wishes he could say: _I missed you_.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> –Tato:[Italian] endearing term.  
> –Ferrogosto: Assumption of Mary, 15th of August each year. It’s one of Italian public holiday that generally celebrated with two-day fireworks.  
> –Ognissanti: All Saint’s Day, 1st of November each year. It is a day honoring all the saints and is celebrated with a mass.  
> –School on Saturdays is traditional in Italy, but many schools in Milan have moved away from it.  
> –It just shows how nerdy I get: I’ve checked multiple university’s academic calendars and discovered that Summer break is usually from second week of May to the end of August. In Fall term, students get what they call “midterm break” (for about seven days) after the week of midterm exam.  
> .  
> uhmmm...I have to be honest, that I still feel hesitant on unlocking this AU from 'completed' to 'multiple chapter' marker. *awkward smile* So do feel free to share what you think below. Suggestions and recommendations will be accepted and sent up to me-brain. hehe  
> .  
> As always, \Thank you/ all for reading, your interest and time! Wish you a splendid week~! ;)


	4. If I Say...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elio confronts Oliver about the thin red line they have been dancing, in purely Elio way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please have mercy! (_--)_

####  **Chapter Four. If I Say...**

 

  
Elio is pacing in front of the closed, half wrought iron gate. Elio taps his phone against his thigh, holding it by the top, seriously reconsidering a thought he previously dismissed: to call, instead. He grimaces. A phone call doesn't always equal rude. He's millenial anyways. _Ah––, tesoro, in person is always better_ , echoes in Samuel's voice.

Tap. tap. tap.

Elio knows why he is here. He knows it's Saturday. He knows it's early. But he stayed up all night. He just couldn't sleep. Elio turns and paces back the path he just treaded.

Tap. tap. tap.

Elio rehearsed what he's going to say. He even wrote it down. He went through way too many sheets of notepad. He scribbled, frantically scratched over them. Nothing sounded right. He ripped the page, scrunched it up, tossed it on the floor and started again. The more he tried, the deeper his frustration grew.

Tap. tap. tap.

Elio doesn't remember how long he has been pacing like this. Back and forth. Back and forth. A voice inside his head says, it is not appropriate. _I know_. He growls.

Tap. tap. tap.

A thought floats, timidly saying, 'it's not too late to turn around and go home, and, and forget all this.' He chews the inside of his cheek now. I hate this. Elio mutters under his breath. _I hate this_.

Tap. tap. tap.

"Elio–."

Ugft, fuck.

Oliver slows to a halt, taking off his earbuds, one at a time.

"Sorry," Oliver offers, catching his breath, "I didn't mean to startle you."

Oliver's cheeks are flushed, sweat beads running down his well-defined neck, his breaths fog up the cool air. _Aw, God--, he's... he's..._ , Elio thinks but never finishes the thought. Because Oliver rakes his fingers up through his sweat damp hair and regards Elio with his eyebrows slightly raised, evening his breaths. Elio stands there completely lost in the moment as if he forgot how to speak.

But Oliver doesn't ask why Elio is here or whether he is okay. Oliver invites him in, telling Elio that he enjoys the drier weather of late autumn. Oliver adds how the shades of amber, auburn, and scarlet staining the tree lines around the trails he runs. His voice is warm and casual, filled with delight, projecting just enough bass with his famous booming voice. It is as if they are two good friends catching up. _So he runs everyday_ , Elio remarks to himself. _He definitely has his way with words_ , is his next thought. Oliver praises about how brisk the air feels in his lungs. _Can't he be any real?_

Oliver slows his pace, noticing Elio not following behind him. Elio stands there his hands shoved deep in his jean pockets, in the middle of stone pathway of Oliver's well-manicured front yard.

"Elio?"

"If I get the job, does it violate the institution code?" Elio blurts out.

Oliver pauses and his lips part, his face goes still.

"I know I didn't even start the process yet, but–––," Elio shrugs his shoulders, scrambling to try and explain the meaning of his question.

Oliver pivots and closes the distance in just two strides and places edges of his open hand, deftly, on Elio's chest.

"Wait here," then he walks to the front door, unlocks it with a practiced ease, and disappears inside the house.

Elio appears rooted there in his stance, as if he became a spell-bound stone stature, unblinking, as if Oliver's words were an ancient enchantment. A few minutes later, Oliver comes out with his head covered in a giant towel, holding two identical mugs in his grip. Elio is glad to see Oliver put on a heather grey fleece pullover. Without a word, he offers Elio one of coffee.  
Elio looks at the cup and blinks, then lifts his gaze up at him, another blink. Oliver gestures lightly with his hand for Elio to take it: he is not going to hear Elio decline. So, Elio unfurls his fingers and takes the warm mug between his palms, saying 'thank you' like a good sport.  
That's when Elio realizes how chilly the early morning temperature is.  
Oliver dips his head a little, like an Old World gentleman. Then, he turns and walks ahead.

"Uhm..." Elio murmurs into the rim of the ceramic.

Oliver glances back, still walking ahead, and tips his head lightly, gesturing Elio to follow him. So Elio does.  
.

The whole Summer, Elio never visited the backyard. It would have been beautiful.

"She's at her grandparents," says Oliver, rubbing the towel against his damp hair.

Elio nods as an acknowledgement, taking another sip. The coffee is good. _Really_ good.

"She'll be really disappointed if you can't make it."

Oliver means the birthday party invitation.

When Elio opened the envelope on Monday, he couldn't believe what he was seeing. Vimini and he, apparently, have a same birthday. Then a sudden thought dawned on him. For Oliver and Vimini, it's not just a day for a celebration. _Shit_.

Up until that moment, Elio's birthday schedule was layed out in advance. He is to meet Marzia at Provence the weekend before and is scheduled to have a dinner the day of, with his parents. But, now, everything needs to be on hold.

The warm coffee in his system unexpectedly gives Elio some semblance of clarity as to why he decided to come here, from the first place. But,

"uh...," is all Elio manages to say. _ugh, You blathering idiot_ , he quickly scolds himself.

"Say what you came here to say," Oliver offers rather warmly.

Elio's mouth gapes.

"It's okay, I won't hold it against you."

 _He must think that I am here to decline the birthday invitation,_ Elio gathers. This makes his stomach curl. Because that wasn't the reason why Elio stayed up all night. He quickly swallows another curse word that gurgled up his throat. Instead,

"I don't want to take the job or, or audition for it, if it means a violation of the university code."

Oliver's head turns and gazes right at him. He did sound like a petulant child, although that was not how Elio wanted his words to come across. It was indeed a little too forceful.

Elio opens his lips to add what he means by it but he hesitates, yet again. Oliver's left foot turns firsts, and he shifts his weight to face Elio.

"If you are worried about the ethical side of how the opportunity came to y-."

"You already know that's not what I meant," Elio states, almost daring Oliver not to play coy.

Oliver stands there, just breathing, looking at him. Elio pushes his tongue on the inside of his cheek.

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because," Elio answers, almost tossing the word.

Oliver's eyebrows tip up as if he is asking 'because what?' Elio swallows.

"Because I wanted you to know."

Oliver takes in a long audible breath. He regards him carefully. Elio squares his jaw, trying not to flinch away from Oliver's gaze.

"Do you like me that much, Elio?"

 _What a question_. Elio dumps his chest through his nose.

"Do I like you?"

Oliver blinks. At that, a close to 'snarky chuckle-like huff' puffs out of Elio.

"Do I like you," a minute pause, "I. wor-ship. you," Elio confesses, "Oliver."

Oliver eyes fall, a tiny click of his tongue rings, through Oliver's parted lips.

"You know," Oliver's long blond lashes lightly bat the cool morning air, at the end of his gorgeous half lidded eyes, "it's the first time you called me by my name."

"Oliver, Oliver, Oliver-," Elio repeats his name immediately, taking a step forward, edging closer to Oliver.

Oliver lets out a long, audible, and noticeably drawn out sigh, squeezing his eyes shut, his eyebrows furrowing in the middle.

"Oliver," Elio says his name again.

 _I'll say it as many times as you want. I won't hesitate anymore_.

Oliver shudders. His Adam's apple makes a hard wave. Elio reaches out his hand, cautiously hesitant, but unable to withhold the want and the urge to touch any longer, and gently places the tips of his fingers on Oliver's hand. To Elio's surprise, Oliver doesn't pull away from Elio's unexpected touch.

Time slows and... all Elio hears is his own heartbeat. Oliver's well-sculpted hand, that Elio's fingers are touching, that he is allowed to touch, is all of a sudden magnified and zoomed in close to his view. Elio sees the soft delicate fuzz on the back of his hand, the jut of his knuckles, the creases along his lean fingers.

And something amazingly unpredicted happens: Oliver's fingers move and links his last two digits with Elio's. Elio takes a short gasp. _This... this feels really nice_ , Elio thinks. Then, Oliver quietly says, "come on."

The two take unhurried steps. Oliver leading Elio to the house, Elio trailing only a small step behind. The path in the backyard winds like a small version of a botanical garden. Autumn foliages are neatly broomed to the side. Hedges are trimmed nicely. _Anchise would love him_ , Elio muses the thought to himself.

Elio slides his fingers forward and, to his surprise, Oliver welcomes his gesture, taking Elio's hand in a full grip, as if they have been doing this all along. Now, two are holding each other's hand properly. Elio tests a little further, feeling a bit emboldened, by giving a gentle squeeze. And Oliver simply runs his thumb delicately on Elio's knuckle.

Elio rolls his lower lip between his teeth to stop himself from squealing. So his elation turns into low rumble at the base of throat.

When they reach the backdoor, Oliver places his mug on the wide window seal, on which small succulents potteries are gathered, and turns the lever. He then leads Elio, stepping aside to hold the door ajar for him to come through. When he is inside, Oliver grabs the mug by the top and follows along, before he lets the door latch shut quietly behind him. The whole time, Oliver didn't let go of Elio's hand.

Oliver leads Elio along the short hallway. They pass the laundry room and the guest bedroom; Oliver a half a step ahead, keeping only a small distance between them. When they arrive at the kitchen, Oliver put down his mug on the kitchen island and offers his open hand towards Elio. Elio blinks: once at his open palm, once more at the cup he's holding. _Oh, right. Okay_ , Elio processes it. When Elio extends his arm a little and places the bottom of the drinkware on his palm, Oliver's fingers nimbly roll in. But he doesn't takes it away from Elio's grip just yet. Instead, Oliver raises his gaze to meet Elio's eyes. Elio's throat bobs. Oliver is practically beaming at him. Elio blinks and lengthens his fingers. The weight of a still half-full cup transfers to Oliver's palm seamlessly as Elio lets go of his grip from the handle. Oliver's softly pressed together lips make a small smile and he places the cup next to his. Then, he fills his lungs slowly in a calm yet steadfast manner.

"What am I gonna do with you," Oliver whispers, barely audible.

Elio isn't sure what Oliver means. _Is he saying it to himself? or is he asking me? What does one say to that? Why does he sound sad?_ Elio desperately wants to tell him something. He wants to let Oliver know he didn't expect this. Him holding his hand. Being invited in where there is no pretense of transactional exchange. Being this close. Feeling finally let in. So Elio tightens his grip around Oliver's fingers. He doesn't know what it means or what it would mean to Oliver. But he had to. Then Elio takes a step closer, and peers deep into Oliver's eyes. Their chests move in sync. Oliver's eyes quiver, staring back, right into Elio's eyes. It's indescribable seeing how Oliver is holding his gaze. The way it makes Elio feel is... It feels as though Elio just found a new religion and nothing else in this whole world matters.

.

 _There's that look again_. Oliver's breath hitches.

A look of deep admiration, kind yet unyielding, pleading but not begging. It makes Oliver feel like he is the very definition of all the worlds' gods and godesses combined, who have been adorned and venerated for centuries.

.

Elio brings his free hand, palm still warm from the mug, languidly reaching up, and places it on the towel that shrouds Oliver's head.  
Elio sees Oliver's pupils dilate. It makes his sapphire blue threads more prominent. To Elio, they look like the aeiral photo of Belize great blue ocean-hole: pitch black in the middle, surrounded by dark indigo circle then embellished with soft pastel blue outter ring.  
Oliver drops his gaze as he lets out a tempered sigh and leans into Elio's palm. Only just.

Elio takes a breath and a soft smile follows. He then brings their held-hands in front of him and turns it over. He traces the tips of his thumb as he releases his gentle hold he had on Oliver's head. Oliver's chest heaves. Elio's now free hand peels Oliver's grip as he gently release his hold. Then he craddles the back of Oliver's hand on top of his two open palms. A tiny stuttering gasp escapes Oliver's lips. Elio's gaze studies the soft yet sturdy palm. He runs the pads of his fingers on the heel where the thumb and the wrist meet. _His life line runs long and strong_ , Elio notes. A warm smile blooms as Elio notices Oliver is academic through and through. Oliver simply observes Elio's exploration of his hand.  
Elio carries on this 'adoration of Oliver's hand' a while longer.  
Then, to Oliver's surprise, Elio gently pulls it close to him with a little tug and places Oliver's palm flush against his left pectoral, giving a feather-light press, with his own palms aligned atop. Oliver's open hand makes a full contact. Through a layer of Elio's shirt, Oliver feels Elio's heart and its entirety. It's strong; it's steady; it's... full of life.  
Elio's chest expands and he slowly looks up at Oliver.

 _This, my heart, it beats for you_. His eyes say.

Oliver takes in another shuddering breath. He's visibly trembling.

"...Elio–––."

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ayeee––, this was a murder for me. On a weekday, even! Though I feed on good juicy angst as a reader, every cell in my body screamed and squirmed while I was trying to transcribe this chapter. (meaning, though I fully accept the responsibility but it's not my doing is what I'm trying to confess.) I went, "oh, just kiss already," and me-brain went, "nah ah!" ughee  
> .  
> As always, \Thank You/ for reading, your time and interest. _Do Please_ feel free to comment below. I thoroughly enjoy communicating with you all. ;)


	5. Yes, Always Yes!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fateful Saturday, in Oliver’s eyes.

####  **Chapter Five. Yes, Always Yes!**

 

**Fastforward: Sunday Evening**

When Oliver comes back with bundles of takeaways, he hears a familiar nursery song. Soft content smile colors handsomely, all over his face.

*

 

**Timeline: Saturday Early Morning**

“No.”

Elio's jaw drops. He is taken aback, his chin tucks slightly towards his chest, his brows furrowing. The mixture of devastation and disappointment of being rejected, a sudden feeling of hurt, a keen realization of displeasure, and anger toward himself invade his beautiful face.

*

 

**Rewind: Section subtraction, 20 minutes**

It's Saturday.

Oliver checked his mobile once more: there is no message. He has never been this attached to his phone. But since Monday, he kept checking his email app, refreshing it needlessly too often.

He clicks his tongue in disappointment. _What did you think was going to happen?_

Oliver emerged from the side door, putting his earphone on, stretching his arms and neck.

At least, he was able to see Elio. It was really nice, Oliver consoled himself as he began his brisk strides.

 

Nice, _adjective _,__ Giving pleasure or satisfaction; pleasant or attractive.

1.1 (of a person) good-natured; kind.

1.2 _ironic_ Not good; unpleasant.

The etimology of the word 'nice' comes from...

 

Oliver ruffled the back of his hair. It's his coping mechanism; linguistic exploration disguised as his brain trying to find something tangible to alleviate the mystery. Something that Oliver couldn't seem to grapple. His knees started to ache quicker than usual but Oliver didn't reduce the speed. At least, the late Autumn was in its full glory along the trail and the crisp air gave him some long needed relief. When Oliver turned into his street, he blinked unusually firmly a couple of times. Though he was about three houses away, Oliver recognized the figure standing in front of his house. At first, he thought he was imagining things.

Oliver played it as cool-n-casual as he could and made a quick judgment-call to have Elio wait in the courtyard. Because the moment he saw Elio pacing in front of his house, all Oliver wanted to do was to pull him into his arms and bury his nose in those luscious, dark, unruly curls. The urge only grew stronger when he saw how tired, gaunt and tense Elio was. It looked like Elio didn’t sleep at all: eyes all bloodshot, lips tad dry, his hands fidgeting nervously.

“Wait here,” he said.

Oliver didn’t, no, couldn’t dare to touch Elio fully. So he simply allowed himself to place the tips of his fingers, just the tips. Even that, Oliver pulled back quite quickly, suppressing the urge to press his palm against his chest. Then, he tried his best to appear composed and went inside the house. Oliver was glad when he heard his coffee maker made a sharp click: it just finished brewing fresh pot of coffee. _Nice._

.

 

**Timeline: Now. Saturday**

One thing led to another, his hand is now on Elio's chest. Oliver knows he is trembling. He tries to control it but he simply can't. It’s futile.

"No," Oliver breathes the word.

And immediately, Elio is taken aback, his lips fall open, and chin tucks slightly towards his chest, his brows furrowing. Elio’s eyes quiver, nostrils flaring once as he checks what hit him. The mixture of several emotions invade his beautiful face. Something like devastation and disappointment of being rejected, a sudden feeling of hurt, a keen realization of discontentment, and anger toward himself. So,

"Even when you get the job, it won't violate the college rules," Oliver explains.

Elio blinks rapidly as Oliver smiles wide. And he hopes Elio caught the part he said _When_ , not if.

"ughh,” Elio dumps out his chest, shoves his forearm across Oliver's chest, “why did you do that?"

Two wrestle, Elio still holding Oliver's hand, forearms crossing and elbows nudging each other. As Oliver’s long fingers reach Elio’s lower ribs, light-hearted laughter burst and Elio giggles, filling the short distance between them. They tussle like two little children trying to one up against each other.

"Wait,” Elio takes in a breath between laugh-giggling, “you said, even."

“Yes, I did,” Oliver smiles.

Elio lets out a restrained groan between his teeth, “why? what does that mean?” asks impatiently, though he is still smiling. This time, light vertical lines appear between Elio’s eyebrows. Oliver thinks Elio’s smiles on his high cheeks look so stunning.

"I have no academic or guidance involvement with you since I belong to a separate department."

Oliver carefully studies Elio’s expression. It is a sight. This young man who has the depth and a full grasp of his own emotion: a true form of emotional intelligence, without ruse or ploy.

"Once you get the position,” Oliver continues warmly, “you'll be with a production company that has a contract alliance with BBC Corporation. And, my involvement as a consulting expert for the said TV documentary has already ended once the filming was done.”

Elio’s cheeks start to blush.

“Sure, I will continue to assist the post-production, here and there, if they so desire. Though I doubt they’ll be needing my help too much. But! if you are concerned, there are ways to ensure beforehand."

Now Elio’s neck is tinged with the same color as his face. Elio dips his forehead, running his hand from the back of his head to his crown.

_God, he’s adorable._

Oliver places his palm on Elio’s hand gently, to stop Elio from messing up his lovely curls. Elio looks up at him, through his eyelashes.

"Is this... is this okay?"

Elio dumps out his chest in a single huff, nodding profusely.

"I missed you," quietly confesses Oliver, his fingers deftly carding through Elio’s hair. Then his large palm arrives at the side of Elio's face, “very much.”

Elio’s throat vibrates in low happy hum, gazing into Oliver’s eyes. He slowly straightens his upper back and rises to his tipped toes. Their noses rub lightly on its tips. Oliver lets out a tempered sigh. Elio swallows deliberately before he tilts his head ever-so-lightly to bring his lips closer to Oliver’s.

“No, no–no–no,” Oliver says affectionately, turns his lips away but only just. And Elio’s lips still lands on Oliver’s cheek while Oliver’s thumb gently traces along the chiseled cheekbone, “not now,” adds Oliver softly.

“Yes, now,” Elio insists, tipping his chin up more, “precisely, now,” mumbling the words against Oliver’s morning stubble.

Oliver chuckles, “if it makes you feel any better,” Oliver inhales, “I have to hold back."

"Why~?" Elio whines low, pouting, his eyes still half-mast.

"Because."

Elio concaves his chest, leaning back a little. It's Elio's turn to look back at him with raised eyebrows asking, 'because what?'

"Because I want to do this right, Elio."

"this?” he asks, deliberately giving a pause, studying Oliver’s expression, “you mean ‘us’?"

"yes, silly,” Oliver replies, “us."

Elio smiles. Oliver mirrors.

.

After what seemed like an eternity, Oliver hooks his gently bent arm around the back of Elio’s shoulder and pulls him into his arms. Another long happy sigh escapes through Elio’s nose. Oliver buries his nose into Elio’s curls: his chest rumbles in comforting bass.

“So, what happens now?”

Oliver fills his lungs, “well, I hope we’re gonna start spending more time together,” states Oliver quietly, “get to know each other.”

The words come to Elio like 4D experience; through his ears, through his skin on Oliver's chest. The even and sturdy thump thumps of Oliver’s heartbeat resonate against his skin. It’s a very definition of a bear hug. All Elio could think about is that he wants to stay like this forever.

“Maybe soon I’ll treat you to a proper dinner date.”

Elio nuzzles his cheek.

“We’ll share a delicious dessert. And if things go well, you’d let me kiss you.”

Elio smiles against Oliver’s chest. _Old school_ , Elio thinks.

Without further words, they stand there holding each other in blissful contentment and shared serenity. Oliver notices Elio relax against him, his breath falling quiet.

“You okay?” whispers Oliver.

Elio tells oliver that he didn’t sleep since Thursday and he’s sorry. Oliver runs his palm slowly and brushing up and down on Elio’s back.

“You’re gonna make me fall asleep,” Elio mumbles, snuggling in further.

Oliver chuckles, tucking Elio’s head under his chin, “let’s get you rested. would you do that for me?" offers with a kind voice, “hmm?”

.

Elio thinks he is being swallowed by a giant marshmallow. Oliver's bed is so soft. Though he couldn’t believe that, in less than an hour, he is invited into Oliver’s bedroom. Oliver offers whether he would like something comfortable.

“Billowy.”

“hmm?”

“Your baby-blue shirt.”

Oliver blinks.

“The one you wore a lot during summer.”

Elio just sits there without a movement. That earns him a brief huff from Oliver and Oliver turns on his heels and walks to his closet. A few moments later, Oliver comes out with billowy and a flannel pajama bottom. Oliver then casually disappears into the shower, giving Elio some privacy.

.

“That was quick,” says Elio, burying his nose on the collar.

Oliver simply smiles and lifts the toiletry bag, “I’m gonna use the guest room shower,” he chins his gesture and says, “rest.”

Elio shrugs, not moving. Oliver mouths, ‘o–kay.’

"You haven't given me the _other_ answer," asks Oliver, literally tucking Elio under the comforter.

“Other… answer?”

Oliver hums.

“What other answer?” Elio asks quizzically, looking up at him.

Oliver smooths the top of the comforter on the side, "am I to suffer the wrath of Vimini?"

Elio chuckles, saying in audible ‘ahhh.’ He tells Oliver that that day is also his birthday.

“Really?, wow, what are the odds!”

“I promised my best friend Marzia that I’ll spend the weekend before with her. And…,” Elio hesitates.

Then, Elio suggests whether Oliver would like to have a dinner with his family as a trade since the Vimini’s party is at around lunch.

"meeting the in laws?"

Elio’s face turns beet red.

“I’m kidding,” offers Oliver, smiling wide, “of course, it’ll be my pleasure. Now, rest, my dear Elio.”

Oliver quietly steps out of the room and Elio doesn't remember falling asleep.

*

 

 _Elio must have been really tired_ , Oliver thinks finishing up his husbandry duties. Files are sorted into its own categories, updated Vimini's school and activities calendar, utility bills are paid, its digital receipts are named appropriately and saved under the appropriate sub-folders. Oliver checked with Chiara’s parents and spoke to Vimini briefly and asked how her Friday night was. Then, Oliver hears bottom of Elio’s feet brush against the floor.

“Sorry, I– uh– I didn’t mean to sleep the whole morning.”

“Would you like some coffee or juice?”

Elio just nods, rubbing at his eyes. Oliver chuckles out loud getting up off the sofa.

.

 

When Oliver offers the choice of cream cheese or nutella, Elio just says, ‘how is that even a fair offer?’ and takes the nutella from Oliver’s hand. The toaster pops and Elio steps towards with a plate as if he has been living here all along.

Oliver quips how nutella sandwich and tea would make sense as Elio takes a huge bite into the bread.

“pft, you have uh–,” Oliver points his finger deftly at Elio’s direction. Then, he quickly brings his hand over to indicated the mirrored side of face to indicate Elio has some on there.

“mhm?”

“You have some–,” Oliver tries to gesture Elio has nutella on the corner of his mouth.

Elio doesn’t get it and Oliver lightly shakes his head.

Then, Oliver presses his palm on the table and leans forward across the table. With a tilt of his chin, Oliver ever so gently licks the nutella from Elio’s lips. Elio’s lips part just a bit in response, his face going still, his cheek bulging a little. The moment stands still and two gaze into their eyes, steady and full of adoration for one another. Maybe something more– from Oliver.

“What happened to having a proper dinner?”

“Shut up,” whispers Oliver, his throat rumbling with low growl.

And, Oliver presses his lips against Elio.

 

| | | FIN | | |

 

* * *

 

>>>Epilogue<<<

 

As soon as Vimini sees Elio on Sunday afternoon, she runs to him joy-squealing and giggling with her arms thrown up in the air. Vimini demands, politely, that she would love for her papa to get the food from their favorite restaurant. So, Oliver obliges.

It takes him longer, since it’s dinner rush on Sunday. Autumn sun sets quicker, cooling the air faster. He brings his coat collar closer. When Oliver comes back with bundles of takeaways, he hears a familiar nursery song: Frère Jacques. Soft content smile colors handsomely, all over his face.

Oliver walks in as quietly as he can, not to break that magical moment between Elio and Vimini.

Vimini’s small hand is playing the treble notes. She is sitting right next to Elio. Elio’s long slender fingers dance, a key lower on the piano. In between, Elio’s right arm reaches over Vimini’s hand and thrums higher keys. Vimini giggles with all teeth, blissful wide smile. She then starts to sing. And something incredible happens: Elio sings along.

 

 _Frère Jacques, Frère Jacques,_  
_Dormez-vous? dormez-vous?_  
_Sonnez les matines, sonnez les matines,_  
_Ding ding dong, ding ding dong._

 

Oliver stands there and one distinct thought comes to his mind:

_This. is. heaven._

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Frère Jacques piano solo: https://youtu.be/N5-Oea9R_pg  
> Had 'I like me better when I'm with you,' by Lauv on, in an infinite loop.  
> .  
> I really truly want to **thank you all** for your interest, comments and kudos on this AU! For rating **G** and one of beloved AUs in CMBYN that has many other great CMBYN authors’ works. I immensely enjoyed the unanticipated connection with you each via this platform. I think *mulling the thought once more*, I can cautiously yet happily admit that I feel more at ease on diving deeper into this part of my personal journey. I genuinely appreciate all of you for coming along for this AU ride!*muwah*;)  
> .  
>  **Special Thanks To** :(A–Z: this is my AO3 tradition ever since my first post. At the end of each fic I logo-vomit, you’d see this list. *giggle*)  
> artitales,  
> asdfghjklWHAAAT,  
> awa,  
> BarkingBard,  
> BBMarcello,  
> bellawu,  
> Chrisaki,  
> Debmont8686,  
> DorotheaB,  
> ElementalPea,  
> ELIOELIOOLIVEROLIVER,  
> Fafnic,  
> gioskam_89,  
> Glam_PT,  
> Joenchi,  
> KaliReeseLove,  
> Kittenpurple,  
> krazysquare_xxiii,  
> Ktostam055,  
> larrybabycakes,  
> littleraspberrycorvette,  
> lucifer_sings_in_soprano,  
> Marc_19,  
> mariun,  
> marymonroe,  
> Midlifecrisis,  
> mmmngoc,  
> moonlight2121,  
> mom2saminoc,  
> mrsdianabishop,  
> odd87,  
> PerpetualStorm,  
> Petals66,  
> porri,  
> redenodersterben,  
> SadGladMad,  
> scrooges_daughter,  
> sweetmrhamill (McCartney),  
> swimmingpools,  
> Vallier,  
> VesperCat,  
> Viveka,  
> and anons who sent kudos, those who subscribed, and bookmarked.  
> .  
>  **as of May 1st, 2019**  
>  if you'd like to drop a suggestion or have a question about any of my drabbles (i.e. clarification, background, etc.), please click [Request/Q&A page](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18658678) and post your comment. ;)


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